


ritual, repetition, reward

by xJuniperx



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Car Sex, First Time, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, because i dont know, dont ask me why they're like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 05:18:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13228875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx/pseuds/xJuniperx
Summary: Because they don’t do this. Not any other time. Not before laying down in separate beds in grimy motel rooms each night, not over breakfast the next morning. Not after mass nor after last call. Not in the presence of others, not even alone.Not ever. Except for times like this.When they have both looked death in the face and bid it turn away. When they’ve been run through the wringer, put on display, exposed every raw nerve. When the ultimate expression of God’s divinity has flowed through them—when they’re still alight with it.





	ritual, repetition, reward

He’s not going to make it. He’s not sure where they’re going—they have no lodgings to speak of, all their worldly belongings are crammed into two ratty suitcases just behind their seats—but wherever they’re headed, he’s not going to make it. He’s going to lose himself, right there in the passenger’s seat, and Marcus won’t even be able to stop driving. They have to go.

He feels his breaths getting shorter, coming quicker, and he cracks the window, seeking air. Grasps the edge of the seat in lieu of anything else, and he curses himself for his lack of composure, still, after all these months. But there’s only one thing that will help now. He knows that.

The whistle of the wind streaking into the car helps to drown out the sound of Mrs. Hampshire’s panicked, accusatory cries. The boy’s leg was broken in three places by the time they were done. Two days ago, he’d bitten off one of his own fingers, spit it out where it lay hardening and blackening on the floor. When it was done, Mrs. Hampshire was dismayed to realize that despite their efforts, it would not grow back. Nor would his leg right itself.

“He’s the star quarterback at his school!” she’d yelled, planting herself in the bedroom doorway, leaving her son to his terrified, anguished cries. “You can’t just leave him like this!”

“We never promised we could heal his body. Our only job is to heal his soul,” Marcus spat as he gathered up his tools and barreled past her and down the stairs. Tomas had trailed behind, as dazed as Mrs. Hampshire was hysterical.

It was over, but it never really ends.

A warmth wraps over his hand, folding over each finger he has clenched into the cushion. He relaxes his grip, releasing just enough so that Marcus’ fingers can slip between his, fingertips pressing firmly into his palm. Marcus strokes the side of Tomas’ hand with his thumb. Tomas watches. Then he looks up to watch Marcus. Marcus watches the road.

The heat and pressure of Marcus’ palm against the back of his hand calls forth the memory of last time. It was two weeks ago, thereabouts, and they’d just cast out a nasty piece of work from a tiny seven-year-old girl. It wasn’t the most difficult case they’d taken on—her heart was still very pure and not overly susceptible to corruption—but at one point her back bent so severely Tomas was sure that it would break, the child laughing all the while. Only the reassuring squeeze of Marcus’ hand around his had kept him upright, kept him focused on his invocations of Saint Michael and any other archangel that would listen.

After, Marcus excused them both from the room, ushered Tomas through the back door, and kissed him hard and frantic against the back of the house. One hand spread across the center of his back, the other curved delicately over his cheek, Marcus pressed and pulled and held him close, panting into his mouth whenever he’d come up for air. By that point, it wasn’t much of a surprise for Tomas to find himself clutching at Marcus’ shirt, body tipping and swaying with Marcus’ every whim. Perhaps it had been surprising, the first time.

But now—tense and trembling in his seat as they barrel down the mostly vacant road—he expects it now.

Sometimes it manifests immediately, like the time before. Sometimes it lies in wait, until they’re both ready for it, until their need outgrows their resolve. But it always happens. Has, since the first time. As the miles rush by beneath them, anticipation starts to settle like a physical weight between them, practically dragging down the truck.

Marcus doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but his hold on Tomas’ hand stays strong. Eventually, Tomas manages to peel his gaze away from the dark patch of congealed blood adorning the side of Marcus’ head and joins him in observing the distance. He expects the silence to stretch on as long as the road in front of them, but suddenly Marcus’ voice cuts through, tenuous in a way that makes Tomas’ chest hurt.

“You know it’s not…” is all he manages. He doesn’t so much as glance Tomas’ way. With a gulp and a breath, he tries again. “I just want to make sure you know that it’s not—true. It’s not like that.”

“I know that,” he says, gentle as he’s able, because of course he does. It’s been one of the most vital lessons Marcus has taught him in the last five months. “I don’t listen to them. I know not to do that.”

Marcus hums, nods, but his expression doesn’t change, brow drawn in tight. Tomas rolls the window back up and the car goes abruptly, unnervingly silent. It’s almost a relief when Marcus carries on—almost, because he doesn’t want to talk about this. Doesn’t want to think about it just now. Can’t, not until…

“Just, I know that they’re important to you,” he says, the words deep and resounding as they seemingly vibrate through clenched teeth. His free hand fidgets, readjusts its grip on the wheel. “I know that you miss them, and I don’t want you to think that doesn’t matter to me. It does.”

“Marcus, I don’t listen to them,” Tomas repeats.

Finally Marcus’ head shifts, looking over and finding Tomas’ eyes for a long, suspended moment before flicking back to the front. In his gaze, Tomas sees a heartbreaking mixture of hope and disbelief and regret, and it melts away any iciness Tomas might have felt at Marcus’ doubt in him.

“Good,” Marcus says softly. “Don’t.” His hold on Tomas’ hand lightens by a fraction, but the air in the cabin is no less heavy, weighed down by all the things left unsaid. A couple minutes pass before Marcus asks, “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Tomas says—the closest thing he can find to the truth. He won’t know until after it happens, and he doesn’t know when that will be. He can’t ask about it. They never talk about it. As if not acknowledging it erases it from some celestial record. As if not speaking the words aloud means the demons can’t use it against them.

With a wriggle of his fingers, he slips his hand free of Marcus’ hold, raises his arm to hover his fingers just over the gash on Marcus’ head. “You’re hurt,” he murmurs, like that’s anything new.

“Still bleeding?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s alright,” Marcus says, and Tomas figures he’s right, but he can’t bring himself to drop his arm. He can feel the heat coming off Marcus’ skin, as if seeping through the wound. It’s no longer dripping but he still wants to hold it closed with his fingers, wipe it all clean so he can forget how it got there.

Mere hours ago, the Hampshire boy had been in front of them, standing tall on his mangled leg only by virtue of the gruesome power of the demon within. Tomas was praying, furiously praying, Marcus a heartening echo beside him. He read, and he recited, and the walls were shaking, but when he next looked up, the words died in his throat.

What he saw before him was an eerie approximation of his nephew. Not as he’d last seen him, no, but—older. Looking much like Tomas imagines he might someday, as he sometimes lays in bed alone with his thoughts, considering how much of his family’s life he’ll miss. How much they’re likely to change while he’s away.

“Uncle Tomas,” it called to him. “Why did you leave us?” And he knew it wasn’t real, knew the demon had trespassed through his most private thoughts to conjure such an illusion, but still he felt his eyes fill with tears so hot they’d almost blistered his skin as they rolled down his cheeks.

“Stop,” he said, forcing himself to take a deep breath. He shook his head, but it didn’t help.

“Tomas,” Marcus said, slow. A warning.

“You missed all my fútbol games,” the boy—the demon—said. “You missed my confirmation.”

Tomas’ heart was pounding. “You’re not real. I—I cast you out, unclean spirit,” he said shakily, signing the cross in front of him, but he took an involuntary step forward. It was true—he would probably miss those things. He’d known that when he left, and had still chosen to go.

“Tomas, whoever you’re seeing, it’s not them. You know that,” Marcus said, and Tomas heard the words, but the face before him was so recognizable—and yet not at all. The guilt sat like a stone in his stomach.

“You don’t care about us. You don’t care about any of us. You let them shut down St. Anthony’s and then left us to fend for ourselves,” it said, hurt bubbling in its voice. “How could you do that, _Tío?”_

“I’m sorry,” he said, hardly more than a whisper, taking another step forward. Then another. “I… I couldn’t stay,” he added, holding out pleading hands.

“Because of _him,”_ it said, shooting a scathing glare in Marcus’ direction. “He lured you away, to use you. He doesn’t care what happens to us.”

Though Tomas wasn’t sure what Marcus could see, evidently he could hear every word because he said, “It’s Luis, isn’t it? Your nephew?” When Tomas didn’t reply, only took another half-step forward, Marcus called, rather wildly, “It’s not him, Tomas. Come back to me.”

“Why do you think he tells you to forget about us?” it asked. “Why do you think he tells you not to call? He wants you for himself. He doesn’t want you to have a family. He told you that.”

“No,” Marcus called. “No, I—”

And then Tomas was close enough to touch—and he wanted to, wanted to wrap Luis in his arms to make up for all the time lost. Luis lunged for him, but before he could process what was happening, Marcus had been there, pushing him out of reach. Luis grabbed Marcus instead, dragged him backwards and knocked him to the ground. Straddled him in one fluid movement and held him down by the throat.

“Now you can come back to us.” Luis grinned widely up at him as Marcus pried at the fingers cutting off his air. He kicked futilely, gasping, and Tomas lurched through the horrifying sensation of being frozen within his own body.

His shock was short-lived, however, as the next moment Tomas was throwing himself at Luis, kneeling over him and rearing back with a yell. He brought his fist down fast and hard, cracking his nephew across the jaw, then again, determined to beat him until he no longer resembled anyone Tomas had ever loved.

 _“Tío!”_ the boy had screamed. “You’re hurting me!”

“You’re _not_ Luis,” he said, because he needed to hear himself say it. Still, he landed one more blow before he could stop himself. Shame flooded him. He closed his eyes, just for a second, and when he opened them again, it was not his nephew, but his sister beneath him, face black and blue. Instead of hitting her, he grabbed her by the arms and pinned them on either side of her head.

Marcus crawled to his side, and they began a furious litany of prayer. Tears were spilling down Tomas’ cheeks, dripping onto the demon’s face like so much holy water, and he tried not to watch Olivia lapping them up.

“Mm, how you taste,” she said. Tomas’ stomach turned. “I can see why he keeps you so close.” 

He’d tried not to let the words touch him. Tried only to listen to himself, to Marcus, to God.

“Maybe it’s better that you don’t come back at all. Someone with a soul as twisted and filthy as yours isn’t fit to lead.”

He faltered, then, losing his grip on one of Olivia’s wrists. She reached up, touching Tomas’ lip with the Hampshire boy’s stump of a ruined finger and said, “You weren’t perverse like this before you left home.” Tomas twisted away while Marcus grappled her arm back to the ground.

She thrashed and howled as Marcus pressed a crucifix to her forehead, then trained her eyes back on Tomas with renewed vigor. “You still had a chance, Tomas. Now, he’ll just keep dragging you around like a bitch on a leash, all the way to Hell. You deserve each other.”

Right then, he’d felt nothing but raw fury. At the evil thing that could invade his soul and twist his desires into something so ugly. At his own feeble constitution. He should be _better_ at this by now. Better at all of it. Beneath the commotion in his mind, he knew he was close to doing something that could not be undone.

Marcus pulled him off before he could. Then they finished it, together.

A pothole jostles Tomas from his memories. He hunches up a shoulder, turns his head to quickly wipe away a stray tear. _Dammit._

Though his arm has dropped a little, his fingers still hover close to Marcus’ face. He decides to settle them just behind Marcus’ ear, a gentle plea for his attention, and Marcus turns into the touch, nuzzling his palm for a few tender seconds before leaning away. 

“Marcus…” he breathes, and he can’t say it outright, but Marcus must know. Tomas watches his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel and thinks, surely, he can’t be the only one who needs it.

“Just a little further,” Marcus grits out, gaze still fixed resolutely ahead.

Tomas finally drops his arm, but he has to dig his fingers into his thighs. Once again he thinks—wherever they’re going, he’s not going to make it. Not in one piece, anyway. 

He glances over and tries to think about the way Marcus’ skin looks, painted by the early morning light pouring through the windows. Instead he remembers the way it had whitened under the demon’s hold as Marcus struggled to breathe. So he tries to listen to it now—the steady, reliable sound of it. Instead he hears only the familiar voice of his own kin telling him of Marcus’ treachery, and it twists inside his chest because he knows it’s not true. It can’t be. Because Marcus is his family, too.

When he looks back this time, he can’t help but reach out and touch. His hand curls around Marcus’ bicep, squeezing imploringly.

“Marcus...” he whispers, and he knows how he sounds—breathless and needy. But why shouldn’t he? That’s how he feels. 

Because this—they’ve earned this. The blood, sweat, and tears. The fresh scarring on their minds. The lacerations on their souls. That is the price, and they have paid it.

“I… I can’t…” he says, stumbling after the words. _I can’t hold on,_ he thinks of saying. He can’t wait. He can’t breathe. He feels his throat constricting.

Marcus looks over again, catching his eyes, and whatever he sees in them has him stepping on the brake. Tomas feels the truck slow and then smoothly veer to the side, rolling to a halt on the shoulder. There’s nothing but open land and tall grass on either side of them. As the sun breaches the horizon and continues its steady climb, the world seems pink and gold and utterly still. No traffic in either direction. It’s just them. Still alive. Still together.

Tomas’ skin prickles as Marcus shifts the truck into park. He turns off the engine, leaving the key in the ignition, and twists just enough to throw his arm over the back of the seat. It’s an invitation, and a challenge. Tomas watches Marcus’ eyes rove down his face, his neck, the length of his torso, then back up, eyebrow quirking as if to say, _well?_

Because they don’t do this. Not any other time. Not before laying down in separate beds in grimy motel rooms each night, not over breakfast the next morning. Not after mass nor after last call. Not in the presence of others, not even alone. 

Not ever. Except for times like this.

When they have both looked death in the face and bid it turn away. When they’ve been run through the wringer, put on display, exposed every raw nerve. When the ultimate expression of God’s divinity has flowed through them—when they’re still alight with it. It was an impulse that has become a routine and only after they’ve walked away from the smouldering wreckage of each righteous battle do they allow themselves this indulgence.

Tomas isn’t sure he’d even be able to endure without it.

Maybe that’s why he feels no shame in being the first to move.

Knowing relief is within reach, he draws his legs up under him to kneel on the seat so he can shuffle closer. He takes a moment to watch Marcus watch him, then leans forward, wraps a hand around the back of Marcus’ neck to pull him into a kiss.

When their lips meet, it’s with a fierce hunger. Marcus immediately slips his arms around Tomas’ middle, forearms folding around his back. One hand snakes its way up to Tomas’ hair, sliding through the curls and urging Tomas deeper, closer. They both sigh at the same time, warm breath swirling around where their lips connect again and again, dragging across each other, constantly shifting position.

“I need it—now,” he says between kisses, though surely Marcus has gathered as much. It makes his heart race to speak of it, even as he holds the evidence in his hands. The thrill is a welcome distraction. “I need it,” he repeats, and feels Marcus nod.

It’s the sort of respite Tomas hasn’t felt in too long, and he slips a knee in between Marcus’ legs, straddling his thigh in the effort to get closer. When he leans back, he feels the bottom of the steering wheel digging into the base of his spine. So he stays close to Marcus’ body, pressed forward as tight as he can, feeling enveloped between the sturdy muscles of Marcus’ arms and the solid plane of his chest. All he can think of is how he needs Marcus to be touching him, holding him, and it’s so good he forgets where they are.

The hand in his hair slips down the back of his neck and around to cradle his jaw. He feels Marcus coax his lips apart with his thumb, tongue dipping inside. These days, he gives what he can to God; the rest he gives to Marcus, who is only too willing to receive. It’s what makes the giving so sweet. In this moment all he can offer is the glide of his tongue, the small noises from the back of his throat, the breath from his lungs. He trusts Marcus with it all.

Every sound seems to echo around the cramped cabin, small whines and huffs of breath bouncing off the windows. Nothing can reach him here, in the middle of nowhere, in the truck, in Marcus’ arms. The notion of safety is almost dizzying. It’s over. It’s over, and now there’s this.

Tomas slips his fingertips under two thin layers of fabric at Marcus’ waist. He slides his hand to the subtle curve he finds there, fingers laying flat and deliberate. There’s a rush in his chest when he feels the heat from Marcus’ skin seeping directly into his palm. It’s warm there, just next to his belly, but also soft in a way the rest of his body isn’t. It’s something to hold onto.

He feels more than hears the groan that spills into his mouth, and then Marcus’ hands are falling, dragging down the length of his body over his shirt, then back up under it. They’re warm and dry, fingertips lightly callused. Already the ache inside him is lessening, to be able to feel Marcus’ skin against his, but he wants more—he always wants more—and that is an ache all its own. It is enough that he should even have this.

It won’t last. It never does. Any minute now, he expects, he or Marcus will withdraw. They’ll exchange sheepish smiles and longing glances and go back to keeping their hands to themselves. Somewhere along the way, they had taken the measure of their sins and silently determined that this—heated kisses, brief grasps of skin—was the most their souls could bear. At least until next time.

For now he bows into the touch, spine curving, and he takes the opportunity to taste Marcus’ jaw, his neck, his throat. There’s so much more to this man, so much that Tomas has never been able to reach. But when Marcus tips his head back—easily, obligingly—he thinks, maybe he _could._

“Tomas,” Marcus breathes, and something twists within him at the thought of Marcus steering them back to their senses before he’s had his fill. He’s not ready for the long wait that’s to follow, so he straightens, finds Marcus’ mouth again. The arms around his back curl tighter.

When they do this, there are no demons. There is no blood, no pain, no doubt. He is right where he should be—he feels the certainty of it in his bones. It’s the only time he is certain of anything. He lets his senses flood with Marcus, basks in the flowery tang of cheap motel soap mixed with sweat that coats Marcus’ skin. The air seems to be leaking from the cabin, or maybe they’re just using it all up. There’s a trickle at his brow and he struggles to pull in each breath but still he presses closer, folds his arms around Marcus’ neck. It doesn’t matter; it’s not meant to be comfortable.

Tomas licks into Marcus’ mouth and wonders how long this can last. And as if God has been listening, just waiting for an opening, Tomas gets his answer.

The truck that thunders by rattles the very frame of their pick-up, the force of it ripping Tomas backwards, steering wheel jamming into his spine. Black exhaust swirls around their car. Hot breath roils within. They’re panting as the huge rig rumbles down the expressway, the moment shattered and dissolving into the upholstery.

Marcus is the first to look away. First out of the window, then into the rearview mirror, then finally into their joint lap, where both of their hands seem to have fallen. Tomas follows his gaze. His fists are loose as Marcus curls his fingers around them, thumbs swiping at his knuckles. They sit quietly, catching their breath.

When he glances up, one corner of Marcus’ mouth is quirked in a half-smile, his eyes unfocused. He gives Marcus’ fingers a squeeze, and Marcus raises his head with a sharp breath, as if waking up.

Letting go of one of Tomas’ hands, he scrubs over his face, over the tawny bristles on his head. Meeting his eyes again sets off such a quaking in Tomas’ chest, another truck might have been speeding by.

“Should we get going?” Marcus asks, as though the last minutes didn’t happen. As though Tomas is not still draped over his thigh, hard and strung tight.

Tomas purses his lips. “I suppose so.”

Neither of them move, aside from Marcus’ small nod.

“Where are we going, anyway?” Tomas asks.

Marcus breaks his gaze, looking out of the window again. “Thought we’d play it by ear a bit,” he says. Then, with a dismissive gesture, “Just had to get away from there.”

“Mm,” Tomas hums, because it’s fine. They’ve never really had a plan before, so why start now? The sticky gash on Marcus’ temple is hard not to notice, so he drops his gaze, only to find the beginnings of a bruise rising around Marcus’ throat, like a gruesome imitation of the collar that no longer rests there.

He wants to touch, and now there seems no point in resisting the impulse. The purpling skin is so warm where he touches it, and for a moment he’s almost dizzy with regret. Before he can do something silly like offer an apology that Marcus won’t accept, strong fingers wrap around his wrist. Instead of pulling his hand down, though, they hold him in place, pressing his fingertips harder against the tender flesh.

When he looks back up, Marcus’ eyes are wide and wet and boring straight into him.

“Where do you want to go?” Marcus asks and it’s—unusual, truth be told.

He shakes his head, offers a fond smile, hoping to see a reflection of it on Marcus’ face. “I’m not the one that sets the course.”

“Well maybe you should be,” Marcus says, serious. He lets go of Tomas’ wrist, then reaches to cup his face, and it’s more familiar than any smile. “We can go anywhere you want, Tomas. Just say the word.”

“I want to go where we’re needed,” he says, leaning in to Marcus’ palm and doesn’t say, _I’ll go wherever you need me._

Marcus’ voice is soft and tinged with pain. “I don’t know where that is right now,” he says, smoothing his thumb over Tomas’ cheekbone. “And it’s true, I never—I never ask—”

“You don’t have to. I trust you. I trust God. We are on the path he set out for us.”

“A path that took you away from your family. From your home. A path I dragged you onto.” The hand on Tomas’ face slips down to his neck. “It’s a lonely life, Tomas. You don’t have to stick it out with me.”

“It’d be lonelier without you,” Tomas says.

Marcus doesn’t respond, but the way his face twitches says enough. Tomas has had plenty of time to become fluent in that particular dialect.

“You’re my partner,” he says, like the fact of it is enough.

“Yeah, I’m your partner, not your captor. You should be able to have a family. I shouldn’t have taken you away from that. Kept you away so long,” Marcus says miserably. When he looks away, Tomas can practically see the gears turning in his head. Marcus’ hand falls. His lips press together, and he nods to himself as though coming to some sort of decision.

Tomas tries to speak around the feeling of his lungs collapsing. “I thought we weren’t supposed to listen to demons.” He aims for levity—a trick he learned from Marcus himself—hoping it will make the air around them easier to breathe.

It doesn’t.

“I’m afraid that if you wanted to leave, you wouldn’t tell me,” Marcus says, meeting his eyes again.

“I don’t want to leave,” he snaps, though he doesn’t mean to, but the mere suggestion makes his blood run hot. He takes a breath. 

Raising his hands, he places them flat on Marcus’ chest. He hadn’t realized how hard Marcus’ heart was beating. His own jumpstarts, ramping up to match beat for beat, the same way he tries to keep pace with Marcus in everything. “Listen to me,” he tries again, a bit strained. 

And Marcus _is_ listening, seemingly in lieu of everything else. He’s holding his breath. He doesn’t even blink, and though it’s exactly what Tomas had asked for, it’s suddenly too much.

Tomas tips forward, brings his forehead to Marcus’ with a sigh. “I chose this, Marcus. I chose this life. I chose you. And I don’t regret it.”

Marcus exhales, a pained noise mingled with the warm breath that washes over Tomas’ face. He can feel Marcus fidgeting, hands wringing together in his lap.

“But it’s not even a lie,” Marcus says, voice thick. “You have people. I’ve only got… you. And I—” A shaky gasp cuts him off. He swallows, pushes the words out. “You’re free to go, but—I don’t want you to. It’s not fair of me. I’ve been—I _am_ —selfish with you, Tomas, and it’s not fair,” he finishes, resigned.

The ache in Tomas’ chest grows almost unbearable. He slides his palms up, over the jut of Marcus’ collarbones, over the tendons in his neck, pressing hard so that Marcus is sure to feel it. His fingers clasp tightly behind Marcus’ nape. For a moment he thinks he might just never unlace them. All the better to keep Marcus with him. Keep him close.

“Do you really think me that easily influenced?” he says, privately willing Marcus to understand. He’s not sure how to explain this. “If you do, maybe I’m in the wrong business.”

Marcus’ hands unwind. They settle on Tomas’ hips, tentatively at first, but then his fingers begin to dig in. He doesn’t want to let go, that much is clear to Tomas, and it’s enough. It’s enough to blunt the edge of the blade that Marcus insists on embedding between them, like he’s a ruined limb that needs to be lopped off. Like he’s saving Tomas the trouble.

“I think you’re a shepherd without his flock,” Marcus says. “I think you’re searching.”

It is both true and untrue—Tomas _is_ searching, but that does not mean he is lost. So he says nothing, only tips his head, pressing his lips to Marcus’ cheek. There’s a bit of moisture there, salty on his tongue which peeks out for the briefest of moments. Marcus’ grip tightens on his waist.

“It’s the blind leading the blind. I haven’t seen God’s guiding light in so long. All I do is lead you further from it,” he adds, so close that Tomas can feel the shape of every syllable.

Marcus says these things like they’re gospel, like Tomas has no say in the trajectory of his own soul. He wants to take the words into himself so that Marcus can’t think them, can’t feel them, can’t use them as a weapon any longer. His mouth drags over to Marcus’, pulling Marcus’ lower lip between his teeth. He watches Marcus’ eyes flutter closed, his do the same, and for a long, suspended moment, all he feels is peace. 

Then Marcus turns his head—with Tomas’ hands still fastened behind his neck, he can’t go far—and Tomas feels an acute exhaustion cover him like a blanket. He’s so tired of watching Marcus retreat.

Marcus can’t meet his eyes when he next speaks. “Even this…” he trails off. He releases Tomas with one hand, long enough to gesture between them. “I’m weak. And that weakness, it’s catching, like a disease. It’s already infected you.”

“Stop,” Tomas says, sudden and louder than he intends, just as Marcus’ face begins to crumble. He lets one hand fall to Marcus’ shoulder, squeezing hard, the other coaxing him by the jaw to look forward again, to meet Tomas’ eyes. “Stop,” he repeats, gentler.

Because it wasn’t like that, Tomas remembers very clearly. No one started it. It just happened, as easy and without deliberation as divine intervention. He won’t let Marcus make a perversion of it.

The sight of Marcus’ eyes, watery and desperate, is the only thing keeping Tomas together. “I want this,” he says, firm and unwavering. “I want you.”

Protest is written all over Marcus’ face. His brow furrows; he almost sneers with disbelief. Tomas lays a thumb over Marcus’ lips, a temporary suture to hold Marcus’ objection inside.

“No, no,” he insists. “What we do is not apart from God. It is an expression of God’s grace. His blessing is in everything we do, Marcus—everything. I feel it.” 

He clutches at Marcus’ shoulders now, wanting to shake him, wanting to crush Marcus’ burden in his fists. Instead he tugs Marcus forward, seizing his mouth, hard. “Don’t you feel it?” he asks, frenetic and breathy, chest full to bursting with God’s light. There’s no need for them to wander in search of it, it’s already within them. Marcus beside him, against him, around him—it’s the most connected to God he ever feels.

“Don’t you?” he presses. The savagery of his kisses hardly allows Marcus’ a chance to answer, but he refuses to be alone in his surety any more than he’ll allow Marcus solitude in his grief. The seconds roll by where Marcus answers nothing but the call of Tomas’ lips, teeth, tongue, and Tomas makes a strange sobbing noise, for all that his eyes are dry. “Marcus.”

Finally, blessedly, as a strong, sturdy hand cups the back of his head, he feels Marcus begin to nod. “I do,” Marcus says, so quiet and just the once.

Tomas surges up on his knees, raining down heavy, lingering kisses from above. Marcus’ fingers clench in his hair as he maps the contours of Marcus’ face—his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, his eyelids, and inevitably back to his lips. What had only minutes ago felt like taking now seems much more like _receiving._ Marcus’ fear, his doubt, his devotion—he breathes them all out and gives them over like a tithing. It feels remarkable. Miraculous, even. The sort of thing he might write a sermon about, had he anyone to deliver it to.

An arm snakes tightly around him. He feels the drag of Marcus’ hand along his bare back, pulling him in. Their bodies are flush and overwarm but all Tomas can think about is what still separates them—the fabric of clothes that suddenly seem itchy and ill-fitting. He chases the impulse because to ignore it now, after everything, would be bordering on impiety. What is instinct if not a rendering of God’s voice?

The balmy air is refreshing on his skin, in his lungs, as he breaks the kiss long enough to sweep his shirt over his head. He knows it’s right, but it still leaves him feeling bereft. After an oddly agonizing moment, he realizes why—Marcus’ hands are now poised hesitantly on either side of his body, a cautious drift that lights Tomas up from the inside with need.

“It’s okay,” he says, then again: “It’s okay, touch me.” As he pulls back, Marcus’ imploring gaze flickers over his face. He takes Marcus by the wrists and helps him bridge the gap, placing unsure fingers against his own rib cage. A bit stunned, Marcus slowly looks down to where his hands lay, two searing points of connection that send waves of heat pulsing through to Tomas’ core. 

It’s a pivotal moment. For one petrified beat, Tomas worries that he’s toppled their fragile status quo, having intentionally cast his shirt aside and with it, all plausible deniability. When the hold on him tightens, he almost throws his head back in relief.

Marcus hands start to slide over him with purpose. Down his sides, around to his belly, up over his chest; Marcus tests the waters, watching his progress. He swallows heavily, and Tomas aches to reach for the bobbing knot in his throat, but he gives Marcus time to gorge himself on sight and touch. 

The air is still and staticky around them, reminding Tomas very much of the serenity before a storm. It can’t last. Lighting ricochets through his body at Marcus’ touch, and he knows he won’t be able to contain it much longer. He snags the bottommost hem of Marcus’ shirt with one finger and tugs, throwing Marcus a questioning look. There’s a jolt within him as their eyes meet again. The web of uncertainty that had been masking Marcus’ expression has been replaced with naked wonder, like God has gifted him something he thought he could never afford. He simply raises his arms, like a child might, letting Tomas peel both layers of clothing up and off.

Tomas tosses the bundle aside and forces himself to take a single appraising glance. No vestments, no veneers. Marcus sits before him in his truest form, pink and raw and radiant. His chest is heaving, eyes glittering with fierce trust, and Tomas lets out a breathy “oh, Marcus,” before falling into him.

They kiss like it’s the very first time (a memory engraved deeply as a signet on his mind, hasty and feverish underneath gas station fluorescents where anyone could see, _anyone,_ but that hadn’t _mattered_ ) because in a way, it is. Skin to skin, newly unshackled. Tomas knows with a conviction that could only be borne in the same place as his faith: this is no longer quite a response to infernal unrest. This is...something else.

Under his hands, Tomas can feel the last of Marcus’ reservations slough away. There’s nothing hesitant about his touch now. He explores every inch of Tomas’ exposed flesh with the same thoroughness with which he might study scripture, and Tomas is only too eager to respond in kind. Marcus’ chest is firm, his skin as smooth and delicate as silk. Tomas drags his fingernails through a sprinkling of hair he’d only ever touched while cleansing it from blood and grime. Never like this. The sensation of it is almost as unreal as the sound it provokes, a guttural whine that has his stomach doing flips.

There’s no mistaking how hard Marcus is against his thigh. He’s in a similar state, and he’s sure Marcus can tell just as plainly—fused together as they are, there’s no margin for error. Before he can talk himself out of it, he leans forward, pressing his leg into Marcus with intent. The feeling of Marcus’ shuddering inhale makes his blood run hot. 

It’s another instinct, and they’re both powerless against it. Their arms encircle each other in an effort to get closer, hips jerking helplessly. Too near to kiss, Marcus buries his face in Tomas’ neck. He kisses Tomas’ ear, noses under his jaw, sucks at his throat, Tomas rocking forward all the while, grinding himself against Marcus’ hip. A unique sort of glory courses through him with each press. Before long, he works himself into a steady rhythm.

“God,” Marcus chokes out, clipped and muffled against his skin. “This feels—Tomas, this is—”

“I know,” Tomas says, awestruck.

“I’ve wanted—I’ve wanted this,” Marcus babbles on, hands sliding up Tomas’ back and clamping down firmly on his shoulders. He clings on like Tomas is the only thing keeping him afloat, muscles flexing as he begins pulling Tomas down into him. He breathes hard into Tomas’ neck, bucking upwards. It’s heaven, pure heaven, to exist in a world composed only of their yearning.

“Me, too,” Tomas says, though the absolute truth of it doesn’t strike him until the words leave his mouth. 

Because it’s good, indescribably good. It’s so much more than they’d had before and yet, astonishingly, just not enough. It reminds him of coming to the end of a long run—when his legs are shaking and every breath is a struggle, Tomas will almost always run one more mile. There, he knows, is where true satisfaction lies. When it seems like he’s reached his absolute limit, yet he knows he’s capable of _more._ Knows that scraping up the last drops in his well of of perseverance is the only way to create lasting change.

He’s overcome with the sense that if he doesn’t push past the burn, traverse that extra distance, it will all have been for nothing.

Holding his breath, he slips his hands down to fumble at the fastening of Marcus’ pants. What he finds inside is scorchingly hot and impossibly familiar, and when he curls his fingers around it, he doesn’t bother to wonder if he’s gone too far. All he knows is that Marcus needs this—his whole body is crying out for it, pleading without words. It is, of course, a familiar ache, and Tomas can’t possibly imagine leaving him this way. Not now.

At his first stroke, Marcus lets out a deep, resonant groan that goes straight to Tomas’ groin. His head is swimming. He tries to steady himself by pressing his lips to Marcus’ temple, and tastes copper.

When he falls back, Marcus makes a whining noise of loss, tries to hold on. But he wants to see the complete picture—wants Marcus to know he’s not ashamed to look, even here, out in the open countryside, under God’s scrutiny. He hisses in pain as the damned steering wheel cuts into the small of his back. Marcus automatically reaches around him and yanks the lever on the side of the dashboard, shifting up the wheel with a mechanical clamor, and Tomas’ heart swells so powerfully he thinks it might burst.

He shows his appreciation by changing the angle of his wrist, by adding a twist of his hand and a flourish of his thumb—he’s learning as he goes. As usual. When a particular motion makes Marcus’ hips jerk or breath catch, he does it again. Soon, each rise and fall of his grip seems to punch a gasp from Marcus. There’s a flush blooming on his chest. His lips are parted, and Tomas can’t resist snatching another taste.

Marcus’ fingertips dance, feather-light, along his waistband, as if itching to touch, and all at once it becomes the thing Tomas wants most in the world. At his fervent nod, Marcus works open his pants and pulls him free. A broken moan bursts from him, making his cheeks flare with heat. It’s euphoric. He’d always known it would feel this good, but he should have predicted it would feel so _safe._ After all, that’s the way it’s always been, cradled in Marcus’ hands. Marcus has him. They have each other.

What they lack in finesse, they make up for in enthusiasm. Tomas watches Marcus twitch and leak in his grasp, watches the muscles in his stomach clench convulsively, watches his chest heave. When he eventually looks up, Marcus is already looking at him, and once their gaze locks, there’s no breaking it.

The world goes utterly still and silent around them. In the vacuum of their pick-up, the only sound is a gentle cacophony of huffs and fractured gasps. He thinks he might even be hearing his heartbeat as it jackhammers in his chest.

At the same exact moment, their free hands rise. Marcus takes his face while he takes hold of Marcus’ shoulder. All the while, their eyes never stray. They hardly even blink—it all seems too important to miss. It’s the very look in Marcus’ eyes that sends him stumbling blindly toward the edge, dangerously close to toppling over. Teetering, he remembers that when he’d had nothing true or lasting to believe in, God had given him Marcus. Now, God has granted him this. No, that’s not right—this belongs to both of them. 

And just then, Tomas knows he’s about to fall.

“Marcus, Marcus,” he warns, because they tell each other everything, and he needs Marcus to know.

“Hold on, wait,” Marcus says, rough and urgent. His fingers tighten along Tomas’ jaw. “Come with me.”

Tomas feels his eyes water as he replies, “Always.”

It’s like being immersed in an ice bath when it happens, rapture coursing through Tomas, flowing in rivulets over and under his skin. His eyes squeeze shut as he lets it overtake him. Vaguely, he feels Marcus lurch, hears a long, deep cry that may have come from either of them. It seems to take an eternity for the fog to clear.

When it does, Marcus is slumped with his head on Tomas’ shoulder. His hands hang limply at his sides. He reaches, aimlessly, to pull some napkins out of the center console, while Tomas moves to pet his hair, rub the back of his neck. Marcus almost purrs, a contented hum that Tomas feels everywhere.

Sluggishly, Marcus digs around, knocking things to the floor until he finds what he’s looking for. He takes a deep breath and lifts his head, leaning back. For a moment, they simply assess. Their hands, their bellies, and—regrettably—their pants are a mess. When they look up at each other, they both break into grins. Their smiles quickly evolve into laughter, soft and warm, if not a little incredulous.

Marcus hands him a clump of napkins and they get to work cleaning themselves, trading knowing glances all the while. By the time they’re done, the redness has mostly faded from their skin. Their breathing evens out.

“I see what you mean about feeling God’s grace,” Marcus says, smirking.

Tomas smiles, or perhaps it’s that his smile only widens. He pauses, considering, then asks, “So, you’re— okay?”

“Brilliant, you?” 

It’s light and easy, and God, Tomas _believes it._ Already he knows that this has left an everlasting imprint on him, and the thought warms him. “Never been better.”

Marcus slides a hand down Tomas’ arm. “Do you feel different?”

“Not really,” he says, surprised at both his answer and the speed at which it came to him. “I mean, better than before, but...” He lets out a short, astonished laugh. “Not in the way I thought I would.”

It doesn’t appear he’ll need to elaborate. Marcus hums in reply, and he knows he’s understood. They quietly regard each other, then Tomas presses in, drops a soft kiss on Marcus’ lips. His knees are aching. They creak when he rises up, climbs off Marcus’ lap and shifts back into his seat. 

He works on untangling the pile of clothing while Marcus adjusts the steering wheel back into place. Despite his best efforts, Tomas can’t quite stop staring. He watches Marcus drag a hand over his head, watches give himself a little shake before accepting his shirt and sliding it back on, one arm at a time. Tomas bites back another grin and follows suit.

“So,” Marcus says, turning the key, the engine roaring back to life. The car shivers underneath them as it idles. “Where to?”

Tomas shrugs. Anywhere, everywhere - the destination has never really mattered. “You decide.”

Marcus shifts gears, then reaches for Tomas’ hand. His hold is loose and relaxed, thumbnail tracing patterns into Tomas’ palm. He steps smoothly on the gas and says, “We’ll figure it out together.”

 _Yes,_ Tomas thinks, rolling down the window and drinking in fresh air. _We will._

**Author's Note:**

> completing this would not have been possible without the feedback and support from my incredible friends. thanks go out to [nookienostradamus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nookienostradamus/pseuds/nookienostradamus) and [Trinity_Blaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trinity_Blaze/pseuds/Trinity_Blaze) for their extremely helpful suggestions, and special thanks to [natlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natlet/pseuds/natlet) not just for making this thing read better, but for being a tireless cheerleader and holding my hand the whole way through. you are the Best. ♥
> 
> i can be found yelling about their soft love at [twobrokenwyngs.tumblr.com](http://twobrokenwyngs.tumblr.com), come say hey


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